O fertile fields of England! We will gather
Your harvest now! The fruit is hanging thick
But it has been decided that we’d rather
Not have the people here who used to pick

Our produce, after all how dare they come
And steal our jobs; the flocking, swarming horde!
We voted Leave, (though many called us dumb)
And honest British jobs are our reward!

We don’t want unskilled immigrants round here!
And harvesting? Well, anyone can do it!
Now we’re in lockdown, furloughed, never fear!
We’ll march into the fields and get down to it!

Except… it’s not that easy, picking fruit.
Why DID we give those immigrants the boot?

Today I’ve heard a lot of ambulances
Go past the house. I don’t know why I fear them
There’s more than usual. Then again the chances
Are that I’m just here now more to hear them .

There’s less now, to distract, less traffic noise
To cover up the sirens. Are there more
Than usual? Could it be the choice
To tune them out is one I made before?

But now I can’t? Another siren passing
At speed. Doppler effect, so I assume
Somebody somewhere’s coughing, wheezing, gasping
More than usual. I don’t like this sense of doom

That clenches in my chest. It seems unfair
To dread that sound. I should be glad they’re there.

I used to work within the NHS
And there was something that I really hated
It caused me such anxiety and stress
My efforts to prevent it were frustrated.

Somebody would decide to raise the bar
On some big issue. But, predictably
Instead of lasting change, we’d get PR:
A new badge for our lanyards! And I see

Matt Hancock now has raised this to an art
There’s something that our key workers can wear
That shows the inner workings of his heart.
Not PPE, a badge that just reads “CARE”.

Instead of vital kit, they’re sent, in lieu,
The word for what this government won’t do.

Just a quick one because I nearly forgot!

A drug that’s called hydroxychloroquine
Invented, first to treat malaria
But used, now, rarely in that area
Was, in a very small scale study, seen

To cure, maybe prevent Covid-19!
And this has led to mass hysteria
Led by the President, who daily blearier,
Has trumpeted this miracle he’s seen.

The problem is, somebody’s trying to dupe us:
It’s not reliable. Whoever said
It was the cure was premature, or lying.

And people with the illness known as Lupus
Who need this drug, can’t get hold of their meds
And so, they may be killed by panic buying.

Three cheers for that old man, Captain Tom Moore:
Raised fifteen million for the NHS!
What spirit! What resolve! Donations pour
In from the masses. Truly it’s the best

Of British wartime pluck! This is a win
For helping nurses get their PPE!
Just don’t ask why we’ve all got to chip in.
Don’t mention ten years of austerity.

Don’t wonder why the funding’s disappeared.
Don’t ask why there is no protective kit.
Look at this sweet old man! Don’t you feel cheered?
“Exercise Cygnus”? Never heard of it!

We’re grateful Captain Tom has got our backs.
(Imagine, though, if Amazon paid tax….)

I wanted to compose an allegory
About a king who would not heed advice
And punished his wise counsellors, but, sorry,
I can’t. The image just turns out too nice.

The angry tyrant who would blame his neighbour
When dreadful plague is spreading through the land…
The literary trope I would belabour
Does not come near. I hope you understand

That I could speak of wicked spells and curses,
Of evil wizards, but, at last, I’m stumped
Because reality is so much worse. It’s
Not magic, it’s not mystery. Look, Trump

Stopped funding to the W.H.O.
That’s further than my metaphors can go.

I’m going to eat hot doughnuts at the beach.
And play the slot machines. I’m going to taste
The things that, now, are so far out of reach.
I will not let my freedom go to waste.

I’m going to go swimming in the sea
Eat fish and chips while seagulls wheel and scream
And if the bastards come and steal my tea,
Well, let them. I’ll just fill up on ice cream.

I’ll walk along the shore collecting shells
And pebbles. I’ll build wonky towers of rocks.
I’ll  sit and watch the waves, the troughs, the swells.
I’ll watch the boats unloading at the docks.

Locked down, landlocked, a distant dream for me,
But all that I can think of is the sea.

On my permitted journey to the shop
I saw a hearse pause at the traffic light
It took me by surprise, and so I stopped
And stared, although it felt so impolite.

The wreath against the window, pink and white
Blooms spelling NANI. Rich Arabic letters
On cloth draped on the coffin. Was this sight
A glimpse how things will be, or of better

Times now vanished, times when we could let a
Family mourn together? One man gazed
At nothing, in the front. His mouth was set:
A grim, thin line. His eyes unblinking, glazed.

I don’t know whether Nani had Corona,
But either way, her loved ones weep alone.

Felt like mixing it up with some anapaestic tetrameter today. It’s still a sonnet. Fight me.

From a responsible social distance, of course.

Are they going to tell us that none of this happened?
It wasn’t that bad, when it comes to an end?
“The economy needed a bit of a slap and
Now look! It’s all better! We’re all on the mend!”

They’re already implying it’s not all that serious
“Everything’s fine, and it’s under control.
We are leading the fight!” The news makes me delirious
But, I suppose, in the end, that’s the goal.

When the lockdown unlocks, will they go back to blaming
The NHS staff whom they currently praise?
Will we somehow forget that they’re suddenly shaming
The ones they applauded in quarantine days?

As we try to recover, they’ll swear that we thrived:
“Look! One hundred percent of survivors survived!”

Today I laughed for fifteen minutes straight
Because my girlfriend said “Oh my dear lord!”
In a high voice. I don’t know if we’re bored
And finding new ways to procrastinate,

Or if the mounting stress of the long wait
For the return of “normal life” has gnawed
A hole in both our sanities. We’ve roared
And hooted at the mildest jokes. What state

Will we be in when quarantine is over?
Our own idioglossia of jokes
Our only form of real communication:

I fear that we will never quite recover
And when we meet again with other folks,
Be spurned, and then return to isolation.